THE  FLAG  of  PEACE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


By    JULIUS    MYRON    ALEXANDER 


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AWARDS,  F.  R.  G.  ! 
TA  CLARA  AVEN 

EDA,  CALIFORNIA 

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Copyright  1916  by  J.  M.  Alexander 

Published  by 

THE  AUTHOR  HEALDSBURG.  CALIFORNIA 

1916 


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T  OF  the  daily  cares  of  life,  as  they  come 
to  all  of  us,  the  author  of  these  verses  has 
endeavored  to  put  into  pleasing  rhyme  a  few 
thoughts  as  they  have  come  to  him.  €J  The  flag 
on  the  cover  was  designed  by  the  author  and  it 
stands  for  Universal  Peace  in  all  its  symbols. 

It  is  a  beautiful  land,  this  "Vale  of  Sotoyome" 
away  out  in  the  West  where  the  gold  and  the 
poppies  and  the  sunshine  are  all  mingled  in  the 
breath  of  California.  <I  The  engravings  are  all  of 
scenes  where  the  trees  and  the  waters  and  the 
wild  are  so  softly  mingled  in  this  romantic  vale. 

There  are  failings,  for  none  of  us  maybe  per 
fect,  but  the  author  would  at  least  be  sincere.  He 
was  born  in  this  land  out  here  by  the  Golden 
Gate,  and  this  little  book  he  dedicates  to  you 
with  fragrance  of  love  and  friendship.  €J  It  matters 
not  where  one  may  live,  there  are  ties  that  bind, 
and  to  all  he  would  give  of  the  love  of  a  brother 
hood  with  the  prayer  that  life  may  be  all  peace 
and  happiness  and  that  the  Good  Angel  may  give 
into  your  keeping  that  key  that  may  unlock  the 
Gate,  someday,  sometime,  into  that  other  Heaven 
beyond  this  earth. 

J.   M.  A. 
Healdsburg 
California. 
1916 


/7371 

Better  than  gold  or  silver  chain — met/links 
Is  truest    friendship — with  its    welded  links. 


H47242 


THE  FLAG  OF  PEACE 

O  Nations  of  Earth!    Make  a  banner  of  Peace, 
An  emblem  to  wave  when  carnage  shall  cease, 
'From  ocean  to  ocean  forever  unfurled, 
A  love-gift  of  Heaven  illuming  the  world; 
Not  for  glory  of  gold,  for  nations  or  cast, 
Hut  to  float  o'er  all  people  in  Peace  at  last. 

Peace,  to  the  land  now  red  from  the  battle. 
Peace  to  the  cannon  and  canister's  rattle.       / 
Furled  he  the  flag  of  the  conflict  on  ocean, 
Stilled  he  the  waters  from  wars  bloody  potion; 
As  quiet  of  eve,  when  the  sun  falls  asleep, 
A  soft  song  of  peace  o'er  the  land  and  the  deep. 

In  the  flag  we  exalt,  weave  threads  of  love, 
As  pure  deep  and  true  as  the  heavens  above; 
Let  every  fold  that  the  winds  may  lift, 
Proclaim  the  sweet,  wonderful,  world-wide  gift; 
By  the  breezes  kissed,  let  it  ever  wave 
As  Life  new-born,  to  the  Free  and  the  Slave. 

Over  North  and  South,  over  East  and  West, 
Over  valley  and  plain  and  mountain's  white  crest, 
Where  great  cities  lie,  a  tumult  of  toil, 
Where  laborers  harrow  the  sodden  soil, 
Float  there  the  Flag,  'tis  the  Century's  right, 
The  breaking  of  day  from  the  shades  of  night. 

This  be  the  waiting,  the  long  years'  reward, 
Prayers  that  are  answered  for  those  'neath  the  sward; 
Tho'  folded  in  death  be  the  warrior's  hands, 
Victory  theirs  in  the  Peace  of  the  lands; 
The  sorrows  of  Mothers,  the  flaming  of  Mars, 
Quenched  in  the  light  of  the  rising  stars 

O  Nations  of  Earth!    Make  a  Flag  of  forgiving, 
Make  a  Flag  of  glory  in  loving  and  living; 
Crush  not  our  hearts  with  burdens  of  sorrow, 
End  the  brief  day  with  a  Peace  for  the  morrow. 
A  Peace  to  the  land  now  red  from  the  battle, 
A  Peace  to  the  cannon  and  canister's  rattle. 


Seven 


PREPAREDNESS 

Let  there  be  Peace — 

Not  that,  that  would  forget  in  waiting  ease, 
Nor  that  of  sleep  and  wanton  idle  dream, 
Then  waking,  see  the  birth  of  breaking  morn, 
And  hear  those  songs  of  childish  lulla-by. 
Those  songs  that  drift  and  rift  and  then  they  go 
As  songs  to  prattling  child,  that  it  may  sleep. 

Let  there  be  Peace — 

But  wake  and  know  that  there  outside,  beyond, 
The  giant  whirlwinds  blow  their  killing  breath. 
And  there  the  earth  shall  tremble  and  the  peaks 
Of  mountains,  they  in  red  shall  break  and  flow 
As  God  hath  made,  in  torrent  tumult  wild 
And  left  us,  that  we  fight  to  live  or  die. 

Let  there  be  Peace — 

And  too,  let  there  be  all  of  pleading  prayers, 
And  like  that  Nun,  who  prays,  in  garments  white, 
That  Nun  who  knew  the  stealth  of  mocking  world, 
Who  knew  the  fruit  of  evil,  lust  and  spoil, 
And  knowing,  there  where  builded  walls  protect 
She  prays  that  all  the  world  prepare  for  Peace. 


Eight 


TROUBLES  IN  A  TOY  SHOP 

'Twas  Christmas  week  in  a  toy  shop,  there 
Was  a  Teddy  bear,  and  a  doll  so  fair, 
And  a  curly  dog,  and  a  woolly  sheep, 
And  a  soldier  boy,  who  ne'er  fell  asleep, 
And  a  little  wee  mouse  with  eyes  so  black, 
And  a  funny  old  man  like  a  jumping  jack. 

Up  there  was  an  owl  that  had  eyes  so  big, 
All  ready  to  squeal  was  a  little  brown  pig, 
A  crocodile  ran  if  wound  up  tight, 
And  a  wolf  with  teeth  was  ready  to  bite, 
On  a  shelf  there  sat  a  big  black  crow, 
And  an  Indian  boy  with  arrows  and  bow. 

Then  the  toy  man  left,  with  a  light  all  bright, 
That  lighted  the  shop,  as  he  slept  that  night. 
'Twas  the  crow  first  spoke,  and  flopped  his 
And  he  said  to  the  owl  some  very  harsh  things 
The  soldier  boy  put  a  load  in  his  gun 
To  shoot  the  bear  if  he  started  to  run.  . 

The  Indian  man  a  long  arrow  drew 

And  shot  the  big  crocodile  almost  through- 

The  jumping  jack  swung  each  arm  for  a  slarn, 
And  hit  the  big  wolf  and  little  white  lamb. 
Then  the  mouse  and  the  dog,  they  ran  so  fast 
That  they  frightened  the  doll  as  they  ran  past. 

They  made  such  a  noise,  they  made  such  a  clatter 
That  Santa  Glaus  came  to  inquire  the  matter; 
He  called  up  his  court  and  he  tried  them  all 
From  the  wise  old  owl  and  the  mouse  so  small, 
To  the  soldier  boy  there,  with  loaded  gun, 
And  the  big  black  crow  that  laughed  at  the  fun. 

With  strings  very  strong  he  bound  them  tight, 
And  sentenced  them  each  that  very  night, 

The  lamb  and  the  dog  and  the  doll  so  fair, 
The  mouse  and  the  owl  and  all  that  were  there, 
To  be  hanged  high  up  on  a  Christmas  tree 
That  all  of  the  people  might  come  and  see. 


GET  ON  THE  MERRY-GO-'ROUNB 

Perhaps  you're  having' a  tough  time  through  life, 
Unless  you've  married  a  very  rich  wife— 
Or  Pa  or  Ma  cut  you  out  a  big  slice, 
And  left  you  free  from  the  turn  of  the  dice, 
Perhaps  that  your  crops  won't  pay  you  to  pick, 
And  you're  feeling  blue  and  you're  half  way  sick; 
Perhaps  you're  hungry  and  your  purse  looks  thin- 
But  you've  tried  as  hard  as  you  could  to  win; 
Don't  worry,  but  stick  on  top  of  the  ground, 
And  get  in  with  the  bunch  on  the  Merry-go-round, 

If  waters  rise  high  and  your  house  floats  away, 
Or  fires  grow  hot  and  it  burns  to  the  clayr 
If  the  road  is  rough  and  covered  with  rock, 
Or  your  boat  floats  in  and  wrecks  at  the  dock— 
If  the  sun  shines  hot  or  the  wind  blows  cold, 
Or  you  lose  your  cash  by  a  robber  bold; 
If  you're  doing  the  best  you  possibly  can, 
But  the  good  and  gold  seem  never  to  pan, 
Just  tighten  your  belt  and  go  with  a  bound— 
And  get  in  with  the  bunch  on  the  Merry-go-round. 

If  neighbors  all  talk,  and  say  you're  played  out, 
And  give  you  a  shove  that's  down,  without  doubt— 
If  your  friends  from  you  turn  and  on  you  sit, 
And  there's  naught  but  talk  and  the  ice  cold  mit; 
If  there's  clouds  in  the  sky,  and  frost  on  land 
And  your  path  is  rough  and  deep  in  the  sand; 
If  your  way  looks  straight  to  the  poor  house  door- 
Just  pull  down  your  hat  and  go  some  more, 
Brush  off  all  the  dust  and  make  a  glad  sound 
And  get  in  with  the  bunch  on  the  Merry-go-round. 

If  you  can't  sleep  nights  and  worry  all  day, 

When  the  collector  comes  you  find  you  can't  pay; 

If  the  light  goes  out  like  the  end  of  the  world, 

And  your  ships  go  down  with  sails  unfurled; 

If  the  doctor  comes  and  says  you  will  die, 

And  there's  nothing  to  eat  but  dried  apple  pie; 

If  you're  sure  you've  been  doing  the  best  you  could, 

And  you've  battled  for  good  as  every  man  should, 

Don't  dream  that  you  died  or  wish  you  were  drowned, 

But  get  in  with  the  bunch  on  the  Merry-go-round. 


Ten 


BIRTH  OF  A  POPPY 

Out  from  the  earth  a  poppy  sprang, 
Born  as  a  Queen; 

Over  her  birth  an  Oriole  sang, 

In  the  Springtime  greeny 

A  leaf,  as  a  feather,  from  earth  so  mellow,, 
Stately  and  proud,; 

A  bud,  as  a  cup,  with  gold  all  yellow, 
'Neath  a  silv'ry  cloud. 

There's  naught  of  the  land  with  colors  bright 
And  fashioned  with  care 

As  the  poppy — born  to  kiss  of  the  light — 
With  her  golden  hair. 

The  woods  and  the  hills  were  happy  then, 
For  they  loved  her  so; 

The  meadows  too,  and  the  brooks  and  the  glen, 
With  her  sunset  glow; 

The  West  is  her  kingdom,  all  her  own, 
This  beautiful  Queen; 

She  rules  aright,  as  a  ruler  alone, 
In  her  golden  sheen. 


Eleven 


MORNING  AND  EVENING 

There  was  no  boat,  only  the  restless  River 
And  reeds,  and  damp  and  tangled  rushes; 
There  was  no  light,  only  the  clinging  darkness, 
And  far  away  the  hov'ring  mists  of  shore, 
He  knew,  for  him,  'twas  coming  even  time — 
A  flick 'ring  wick  and  pausing  pulsing  heart. 

The  setting  sun  of  wayward,  waiting  life— 

Beyond  a  cloud,  but  naught  of  glist'ning  sheen 

Or  silver  gleam — only  the  folding  dark; 

There  were  no  tears,  only  the  reaching  out, 

The  quickened  grasping  and  the  impetuous  longing 

For  light,  and  for  the  dash  of  coming  oar. 

The  morn  and  with  it  came  the  break  of  day, 
And  there  a  ray  of  light  which  lead  to  him 
As  by  a  silver  cord,  the  birth  of  Love, 
Faith  and  Hope — there  by  window  waited; 
'Twas  then  he  heard  the  dip  of  coming  oars, 
And  light  of  that  new  morn  gleamed  out  ahead. 


\ 


LITTLE  SHOE  STRINGS 

'Twas  down  Broadway  in  the  glare  of  light, 
^Her  hat  and  leather  and  shoes  all  white;  ' 
We  walked  so  gay  'midst  the  changing  throng 

While  those  of  the  way  passed  each  along. 
Happy  iny  heart  with  the  beautiful  girl, 

Dainty  and  fair  as  a  delicate  pearl; 
Walking  so  light  by  the  broad  paved  way, 

Talking  of  all  that  lovers  might  say— 
'My  shoe-string's  untied;   won  t  you  tie  it,  please? 

The  little  white  bow  I  tied  with  ease. 

Along  by  the  sea  where  the  waves  crept  in, 

The  white  winged  gulls  and  the  roar  and  din; 
On  sand  so  smooth  by  the  restless  sea, 

^Two  little  tracks  as  dainty  could  be. 
We  watched  the  waves  and  the  living  spray 

And  looked  far  out  at  the  ships  all  gray; 
Beyond  was  the  sun  just  setting  in  gold, ' 

The  blue  of  sky  not  a  cloud  did  hold— 
'My  shoe-string's  untied;  Won't  you  tie  it,  p!o;i«c?' 

"Pardon,"  I  said,  by  the  soft  sea  breeze. 

Out  in  the  fields  on  the  May  day  fair, 
^  Again  the  tracks— 'twas  just  a  pair; 
e  great  oak  trees  and  the  meadow  land, 
The  soft  brown  glove  and  the  little  white  hand. 
Twas  a  linnet's  song  in  the  leafy  bower 
^  And  a  buttercup  bloom,  the  spring-time  flower; 
The  brook  to  the  river  ran  whisp'ring  down, 

Over  the  rocks  both  silver  and  brown— 
'My  shoe-string's  untied;  Won't  you  tie  it,  please ?T 
'Sure,"  I  said,  'neath  the  green  meadow  trees. 

The  moonlight  was  silver,  the  starlight  dim, 
The  cricket  just  sang  its  ev'ning  hymn;  ' 

Away  o'erhead  was  the  ether,  blue, 

The  wind  from  the  South  was  soft  and  true. 


Thirteen 


T\vo  little  tracks  in  dust  of  the  way, 
No  one  could  see,  'less  light  of  the  day; 

Over  the  sand  and  over  the  hill, 

Two  little  tracks  in  the  night  so  still — 

"My  shoe-string's  untied;  Won  c  you  tie  it,  please?"1 
"Forgive  me,"  I  said,  as  I  knelt  on  my  knees. 

Years  have  fled  since  the  bright  street  scene, 

'Twas  long  ago  in  the  fields  so  green; 
The  waves  of  the  sea  still  kiss  the  sand, 

And  the  moonlight,  too,  creeps  o'er  the  land. 
There  are  more  little  tracks  along  the  way, 

Barefooted,  some,  in  the  soft  brown  clay; 
Little  white  shoes,  and  some  are  brown, 

By  trundle  bed  there,  of  feathers  and  down — 
Now,  half  of  my  time  along  life's  way, 

Is  tying  shoe-string  all  of  the  day. 


FATE 

I  built  me  a  castle  of  brown  stone  walls, 
With  wond'rous  beauty  in  all  its  halls; 
'Twas  there  I  would  live  in  a  dreamy  way, 
And  there  with  content  for  every  day. 

I  painted  a  picture  with  colors  rare, 
The  bright  and  the  shade  I  made  with  care ; 
I  made  for  it  then  a  golden  frame, 
A  "Beautiful  Dream",  I  gave  it  name. 

I  made  me  a  home  in  shaded  bowers, 
About  it  a  garden  of  rarest  flowers; 
The  sunlight  land  of  beautiful  clime. 
With  love  there  to  live,  till  ending  time, 

Alone  was  the  way  that  was  granted  me, — 
Not  a  castle  or  home,  nor  shading  tree; 
For  me  it  was  locked,  my  dream-land  gate, 
I  never  knew  why — perhaps  it  was  "Fate". 


Fourteen 


THE  WHITE  SOUL 

Tell  me,  O  Clay,  of  that  White  Soul  within  your  keeping — 
The    Soul    that    wakened     you  from    your  first    night  oi 

sleeping; 

That  gave  unto  the  mortal,  the  God  Immortal  breath; 
That  clave  you  from  the  Shape  whose  end  shall  be  of  death . 
That  made  of  you  its  earthly  home,  a  part  to  be 
Imprisoned,  with  its  keeper  death  to  hold  the  key; 
You  as  Master — amongst  those  things  of  earth  so  dumb; 
Your  Soul  enslaved,  awaiting  for  release  to  come. 

Then  tell  me  of  the  Soul  so  White,  that  came  to  you— 
Nourished  in  the  Garden  of  your  God  it  grew. 
He  fashioned  you,  and  then  the  Soul  He  plucked  and  sent 
Through  Vale  of  Mysteries  and  through  the  heavens  rent, 
And  bade  of  you  to  hold,  till  He  again  should  call 
And  closing  your  dim  eyes  to  light  of  world  and  all, 
Take  back  the  Soul  He  gave  to  you,  unto  His  own 
Burdened  with  all  that  you  for  earth  and  self  hath  sown. 

Unnumbered  years  and  long  centuries  of  time, 
The  peopled  earth,  its  hunger  and  red  fields  of  crime ; 
Its  Kings,  its  Lords  and  Masters,  opulent  in  wealth; 
The  deep  heart-cry  of  sickness,  the  joyous  song  of  health — 
In  all  the  Soul,  as  faultless  pearl  within  the  shell, 
Bound  until  the  end,  till  toiling  of  the  bell, 
Within  the  charnel  house  of  Life,  Immortal  food, 
As  white  as  snow,  it  came  to  man  and  multitude. 

That  Soul  his  God  loaned  unto  him,  to  be  returned 
As  it  went  forth  ?    Or  shall  it  go  seared  and  burned 
By  all  of  Life's  hot  passions,  driven  from  its  home. 
To  cry  for  pity  to  the  blue  of  arched  dome  I 
And,  kneeling  there  outside  the  great  Eternal  Gate, 
Cry  back  to  earth,  and  say:  "Oh  Clay!  Too  late!  Too  late! 
The  golden  key  to  heaven  you  held  within  your  hand ; 
You  lived  for  self — and  left  me  in  the  desert  lan-d ' ' 

Then  tell  to  me,  0  Mortal  form!    When  shadows  creep; 
And  when  the  Wolf  of  Gray  shall  come  in  breathing  deep 
Your  answer  for  the  keeping  of  the  Soul  so  Wrhite  ? 
What  shall  your  reck'ning  be  for  each  of  day  and  night? 
What  of  the  cruel  scar  and  of  the  heavy  blow? 
And  did  you  care  as  friend  or  did  you  crush  as  foe? 
It  pleads  with  you  ere  the  last  dark  hour  shall  come — 
Then  to  thy  Soul  give  heed  and  be  not  dumb. 

Fifteen 


THE  FOLLY 

Stand  up  and  go,  'tis  time  to  die! 

i  i>u  are  but  slave,  so  ask  not  why, 

You  are  but  flesh— a  king  calls  thee, 

It  matters  not,  for  land  or  sea. 

The  mountain  bird  hath  cleaving  wings, 

But  tliou  art  made  as  sordid  things- 

<•;,;  Id—not  thy  mother's  boy, 

But  chess  to  play— a  kingly  toy; 

Go  forth  and  leave  on  field  thy  clay, 

A  Tsar  demands  thy  life  this  day, 

The  smoke  and  shot  and  cannon  roar- 

ZX  life— he  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Stalwart,  strong,  of  rounded  limb, 
Thy  flashing  eyes  for  death  to  dim; 
It  is  but  war,  ask  not  the  cause, 
Nor  question  he  who  made  the  laws; 
Then' pray  thy  God,  ere  thou  art  slain, 
And  pour  thy  blood  on  sodden  plain. 

Thou  shall  not  know— perchance  retreat, 

For  thee  'twill  only  be  defeat. 

God  gave  to  thee  a  living  soul, 

Its  home  man  claims,  go  pay  the  toll! 

Go  out  and  die  on  lands  or  seas, 

While  Kings  shall  feast  and  Follies  please. 


Sixteen 


MICKEY'S  CHRISTMAS 

What  do  we  care — its  Christmas  day! 
Cold  and  storm  and  the  wind,  you  say  f 
What  do  we  care — how  deep  the  snow! 
Hold  on!    There's  Mickey,  go  slow!    Go  slow! 

What  do  we  care — a  tear  and  tangled  curl! 
Who  cares  for  tears!    She's  not  our  gin! 
Shiver  and  cold  and  bare  little  toes, 
Just  Mickey's  girl — with  her  tattered  clothes- 

What  do  we  care — a  Christmas  tree, 
Furs  and  coats  as  warm  as  can  be; 
Horses  and  sleighs  and  laughter  and  song, 
(jingle  the  bells  and  hurry  along. 

What  do  we  care — a  table  spread ! 
Turkey  and  pies  and  cranberries  red; 
Clink  the  glasses  and  drink  a  toast! 
Listen!    There's  Mickey!    Oh  no  its  his  gnost! 

What  do  we  care  for  nobody's  boys, 
Drive  over  them  now  with  your  load  of  toys! 
Get  out  of  the  way — its  Mickey  there, 
His  little  girl  too,  with  her  tangled  hair! 

What  do  we  care — tomorrow  you  say? 
Oh  well — tomorrow' — that's  far  away! 
What's  that  out  there — a  little  white  mound  I 
It's  only  the  snow  piled  high  on  the  ground! 

What  do  we  care — just  a  little  white  stone 
One  was  for  Mickey — the  cold  wind's  moan; 
The  little  girl  too,  with  her  tangled  hair, 
'Twas  a  snow  white  slab,  told  sne  was  there. 

Who  cares  for  Mickey,  when  snow  falls  deep? 
Or  for  rags  and  tags  where  the  shadows  creep? 
Two  little  slabs,  two  mounds  out  there, 
Tatters  and  Mickey — in  God's  safe  care. 


Seventeen 


HOLDING  ME 

The  perfume  of  flowers  all  sparkling  with  dew,. 
The  sunshine  of  Heaven  from  sky  so  blue. 
A  song  from  the  brook,  and  the  river's  gleam;. 
The  moonlight,  the  starlight,  as  Angel's  dream., 

The  munmir  of  voice  from  shading  treer 

Like  cords  of  love  are  holding — 

Holding  me. 

Away  over  there  i&  the  cold  and  the  &nowr 
And  there  are  the  plains  where  the  dust  winds-  blow. 
The  long,  long  way  in  the  glare  of  the  sun, 
And  the  heated  fields  where  no  waters  run; 
Parched  and  dry  for  the  toil  of  man, 
Is  the  far  away  land  of  gray  and  tan. 

The  Gates  of  Gold  are  locked  by  the  sear 
My  heart,  my  life  they're  holding — 

Holding  me. 

0,  Golden  West!  my  life  and  my  love, 
So  close  to  the  doors  of  Heaven  above, 
Here  will  I  live  till  my  last  long  sleep, 
Midst  gardens  of  flowers    so  soft  and  deep. 

Twining  my  heart  from  the  land  and  the  sea, 
Sweet  threads  of  love  are  holding — 

Holding  me. 


Eighteen 


KATHLEEN 

-Blue  was  the  sky  of  the  land  so  fair, 
Soft  were  the  songs  on  the  balmy  air; 
.Songs  of  the  birds  of  the  brooks  and  breeze, 
Kissing  the  hills  were  the  bending  trees; 
Wild  grew  <the  flowers,  all  tangled  and  brig^c, 
.vSunshine  of  day  and  starlight  of  night: 
This  was  the  vale  of  brown  and  of  green. 
This  was  the  home  of  sweet  Kainleen. 

Winding  the  river  ran  down  to  the  sea, 
Meadows  and  hills  and  brooks  of  the  lea; 
Cottages  here  with  arbutus  and  rose, 
Happy  tlio  home  where  the  great  oak  grows; 
A  Spring  time  of  blossoms,  of  twining  vines, 
An  Autumn  of  fruitage  of  purple  wines; 
The  kiss  of  the  sun  as  a  silver  sheen; 
These  were  the  love  of  sweet  Kathleen. 

Out  in  the  West  where  the  sun  falls  asleep, 
Where  floating  clouds  are  silvered  deep, 
Where  buttercups  grow  by  poppies  of  gold, 
And  thistles  nod  in  the  wind,  so  bold, 
Where  the  Oriole  swings  in  its  cradle  high, 
And  the  Robin  touches  the  blue  of  sky, 
There  too  was  her  heart,  midst  ail  this  scene. 
The  Rose  of  the  Vale,  sweet  Katiileen. 

Sunset  and  starlight,  flowers  and  birds, 
Songs  the  sweetest  that  ever  were  heard; 
Brooks  and  rivers  winding  and  deep, 
Hills  and  trees  and  soft  winds  asleep; 
The  picture  all  painted  of  colors  bright, 
God  made  them  each  of  sunshine  and  light; 
The  best  of  all,  and  she  was  their  Queen, 
Was  the  heart  and  the  love  of  sweet  Kathleen. 


Nineteen 


PORTALS  OF  THE  PAST 

Through  Portals  of  the  Past  come  go  today,  with  me, 
A  winding  path  'neath  trees  and  o'er  the  meadow  lea; 
Let's  turn  the  backward  path,  through  gates  unlocked  today. 
That  we  may  wander  all  along  the  old  time  way 
Where  life  began  for  us,  in  childhoods  sunny  smile, 
In  ripple  of  a  laughter,  and  sunshine  all  the  while. 

'Tis  not  so  long  ago,  the  road  we'd  travel  back, 
'Tis  there  we'll  see  the  print  of  wand 'ring  little  tracks; 
We'll  see  the  golden  roses  and  near  the  the  birds  of  songr 
The  days  were  all  too  short  and  time  was  never  long; 
For  we  were  love  and  laughter,  from  morn  till  evening  fall. 
Childhood!  Shall  we  go?   Oh  don't  you  hear  the  call! 

We'll  gather  truant  posies,  along  that  flowered  way- 
And  there's  that  little  gate— 'twas  sure  the  month  of  May. 
A  rainbow  over  there!    Oh  please  forget  the  tears, 
For  tears  should  never  mingle  with  memories  of  the  years 
And  now,  hold  tight  my  hand!    Oh  don't  you  want  to  go 
Through  Portals  of  the  Past!  What  makes  you  walk  so  slov,-? 

Let's  close  the  gate  and  turn  the  old  lock  fast — 
The  little  path  we  wtend'rd  in  days  that  now  are  past 
Looks;  Oh!  so  lonely,  for  there  are  none  along  the  road — 
Not  one  of  those  we  loved  to  lighten  up  the  load. 
Let's  open  wide  the  gates,  those  Gates  we  sometimes  dread, 
Don't  be  afraid,  God's  hand  will  lead  us  through  -.the  Gates 
ahead. 


Twenty 


A  REVERY 

By  the  firelight  glow,  at  close  of  day, 
Weaving  the  colors  of  red  and  gray; 
Alone  she  sat,  and  the  silken  thread 
Wove  in  and  out,  as  her  fingers  lead. 

One  was  a  rose  of  deep  red  hue, 
Forget-me-not  with  its  color  blue ; 
The  silken  floss  and  the  needle  bright, 
She  laid  them  down  in  the  fading  light. 

For  the  one  she  loved,  the  brightest  thread, 
She  wove  in  the  rose  of  deepest  red; 
Why  the  blue  she  made  with  silken  spray, 
Her  heart  ne'er  told,  no  one  could  say. 

Just  touching  them  both,  each  tangled  floss, 
As  the  dew  would  kiss  the  clinging  moss, 
A  tear  on  the  rose  was  woven  true, 
A  tear  there  too,  on  the  flower  of  blue. 


THE  TWO  SHADOWS 

One  shadow  came  down  from  the  green  leafed  tree, 
To  shelter  a  child  at  play; 

The  song  of  birds  and  the  breeze  from  the  sea, 
The  world  was  so  happy  that  day. 

One  shadow  came  down  from  a  cloud  of  gray — 

A  little  white  coffin  its  bed; 
Tears  came  down  with  the  shadow  that  day, 

For  the  little  child  tuere  was  dead. 


Twentyone 


THE  MOON  CHILDREN  AND  THE  TIDE 

The  children  came  down  from  the  moon  one  night, 

To  play  with  the  tides  of  the  sea ; 
Kach  child  was  a  beam  of  silvery  light, 

And  they  danced  on  the  sand  in  glee. 

Then  the  tide  brought  out  from  its  deep  sea  home, 

Its  playthings  of  amber  and  green; 
A  boat  load  it  brought  through  the  snow  white  foam, 

To  the  sands  with  their  starlit  sheen. 

There  were  shells  of  pearl  and  crimson  shells — 

That  were  painted  by  Mermaid  brides — 
There  wore  mosses  green  from  the  rock  deep  dei's, 
For  the  play  of  the  moon  and  tides. 

A  pearly  shell  brought  a  song  from  the  deep, 
'Twas  filled  with  the  sound  of  the  waves; 

Sometimes  it  was  gay,  sometimes  it  would  weep. 
As  it  sang  of  the  deep  sea  waves. 

Fishes  of  silver  and  fishes  of  gold, 

Peeped  out  from  the  waters  blue; 
The  children  played  on  'till  the  night  was  old, 

By  the  sea  where  the  green  moss  grew. 

Away  in  the  deep  was  the  Ocean's  roar, 

Like  a  tumult  of  battle  wild; 
The  wind  came  in  and  a  message  it  bore 

To  the  sand  and  the  midnight  child. 

A  battered  spar  with  a  clinging  hand, 

Came  in  with  the  sea  weeds  of  gray; 
'Twas  the  only  ghost  of  the  silver  sand, 
And  it  drifted  out  with  the  day. 

When  the  sun  came  out  of  the  starry  night, 
There  was  naught  of  the  play-ground  there, 


Twentytwo 


For  the  tide  took  back  its  toys  so  bright, 
And  the  sands  of  the  sea  swept  bare. 

We  are  the  children  of  earth  and  sky, 
As  moonbeams  that  play  with  the  tide; 

We  are  born  of  the  earth  to  live  and  die, 
As  the  ships  o'er  the  deep  sea  ride. 

Our  toys  are  Hope  and  Ambition  and  Fame, 
They  are  painted  in  silver  and  gold; 

We  think  if  we  only  can  make  a  name, 
It  is  all  that  there  is  to  hold. 

There  is  something  better  than  only  play, 

Than  a  dance  by  side  of  the  sea, 
There  are  hearts  that  are  waiting  night  and  day, 

For  a  love  from  you  and  from  me. 

There  are  ghosts  come  in  with  the  toys  of  life, 

80  a  smile  or  maybe  a  tear 
Are  treasures  to  give  in  this  world  of  strife— 

As  we  play  with  each  passing  year. 


SOMETIMES 

'Twas  just  a  rose,  so  very  white; 

She  came  and  toucned  it,  'neath  the  stars  of  night, 

Then  bending,  kissed  the  rose,  all  dewy  there; 

And  with  her  hand  she  broke  the  stem  with  care, 

The  bloom  she  placed  so  close  her  iieart 

Till  of  herself  it  seemed  a  living  part. 

The  rose  so  fair,  it  clung  as  if  in  fear, 

Upon  its  leaf  as  glistening  dew — a  tear — 

Oh  well!    The  rose,  of  course,  it  never  knew; 

Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  a  rose,  don't  you? 


Twenty  three 


THE  FALLEN  MONARCH 

A  King  sleeps  there!  Proud  Monarch  of  the  forest  great,      ; 

Upon  his  bier  of  clay,  as  ruler  lies  in  state ; 

His  comrade  earth,  a  pillow  made  of  mellow  clod, 

And  sent  its  twining  vine  from  banks  of  fern  and  sod     ^ 

To  weave  in  living  green  about  its  soft  clay  bed 

A  \vreath,  as  people  weave  their  garlands  for  the  dead; 

From  off  the  sea,  the  drifting  fog  in  silence  crept 

A  shroud  of  white,  to  fold  the  Monarch  as  he  slept; 

And  then,    from  out  the  clouds,    each  borne  by  whisp'nng; 

breeze 

The  raindrops  fell,  and  hung  upon  the  living  trees; 
These  were  the  tears  that  came  from  out  the  weeping  sky 
As  sorrow  hovers  o'er  the  tomb  where  loved  ones  lie; 
The  streaming  light  of  sun,  through  leaves  of  yellow  Fall 
Made  shadows  dark,  these  were  for  it  a  funeral  pall; 
From  far  away,  the  wind — it  came  in  murmurs  low, 
A  mournful  dirge  from  off  the  hills  where  pine  trees  grow ; 
And  then  as  solemn  echoes  of  a  requiem  bell 
O'er  land,  the  moan  of  ocean  came  its  grief  to  tell; 
The  voice  of  hills  was  hushed  as  broken  chord  of  song, 
And  somber  leaves  of  death,  in  piles  they  drifted  long, 
The  startled  deer  looked  on,  as  child  would  stop  from  play, 
Nor  feathered  throat  of  Oriole  gave  song  of  day. 
Time  came  and  there  it  left  its  moss  of  bearded  gray, 
And  then  the  Age  and  gave  the  Eedwood  back  to  clay; 
As  mortal  of  the  earth  the  Monarch  lived  and  died, 
And  there  above  its  grave  the  voice  of  Nature  cried. 


Twentyfour 


FORGETTING 

81  ow  walking  by  the  path  of  every  day,        , 
A  rosebud  gathered  growing  by  the  way; 
Beneath  the  morning  sun  it  opened  wide 
With  sunlight's  silv'ry  beauty,  crimson  dyed, 
And  touched  with  every  shade  and  white  and  red, 
And  too,  with  bits  of  gold  its  heart  was  fed, 
Like  sunbeams  falling  soft  on  purling  stream— 
A  kiss  of  love  upon  the  water's  gleam  j 
On  rosebud  leaf  a  wanton  dewdrop  lay — 
'Twas  love 's  caress  at  dawning  of  the  day. 

There  by  the  path  I  met  created  man, 

To  hold  both  life  and  soul — 'twas  God's  great  plan, 

Perfection's  type,  yet,  stumbling  as  he  trod, 

Forgetting  that  his  Maker  was  his  God; 

He  looked  ahead  and  walked  with  heavy  tread, 

By  thoughts  of  gain  his  very  soul  was  fed. 

To  him  I  gave  the  rose  from  heaven  above, 

For  in  its  heart  had  breathed  the  God  of  love. 

He  crushed  it  in  his  long  and  bony  hand, 

He  flung  it  down  upon  the  dusty  land. 

Oh  God !    For  man,  why  make  these  beauteous  things. 
The  blue  of  vaulted  heaven,  the  bird  that  sings, 
The  rosebud  and  the  pearl,  the  moon  and  stars, 
The  dawn  and  eve  with  streaks  of  golden  bars? 
He  turns  from  them  in  all  of  deepest  scorn, 
And  looks  upon  the  earth  where  he  was  born 
A  sordid  spot,  for  only  gain  and  greed, 
As  one  that's  born  of  low  and  uncouth  breed, 
Forgetting  that  some  day,  beneath  the  dust  and  clay 
His  only  friend  may  be — the  rosebud  by  the  way. 


Twentyfive 


THE  TWO  VOICES 

They  are  calling,  ever  calling, 
Silent  whispers  of  the  day; 

As  the  autumn  leaves  in  falling, 
As  the  brightest  flowers  of  May, 

Shadows  one,  in  all  our  going, 
Heavy,  as  the  hand  of  night; 

As  the  oars  that  dip  in  rowing, 

Or  as  clouds  that  shade  the  light 

Heavy  as  a  sorrow  lending, 

As  the  waters  deep  and  dank; 

As  the  willows,  weeping,  bending 
O'er  the  rushes  of  the  bank. 

Sunshine  one,  'tis  ever  telling 
Of  a  Fairy  land  of  song; 

All  its  gladsome  notes  are  welling^ 
As  we  journey  life  along. 

Peace  and  joy  to  heart  so  weary, 
Telling  it  so  soft  and  sweet; 

Banish  all  of  thoughts  so  dreary, 
Strewing  flowers  at  our  feet. 

One  of  shadows  tears  and  sorrow, 
Taking  life  its  heavy  toll; 

One,  to  brighten  every  morrow, 

Angel  whisperings  to  the  soul. 


Twenty-six 


PA  AND  ME 

When  pa  and  me  were  boys  together,  quite  many  years  ago; 

(My  pa,  of  course,  was  older 'n  me,  but  then  I  didn't  know;' 

We  used  to  have  a  lot  of  fun,  just  us  two  boys  alone, 

You  see  we  lived  upon  a  hill,  like  kings  upon  a  throne, 

A  little  cottage  hid  away,  bj~  roses  red  and  white, 

And  little  squares  for  window  panes,  let  in  the  morning  light; 

'Twas  there,  the  green  and  climbing  vines,  most  hid  each  tiny 

door, 

And  some  of  them  got  clear  inside  and  trailed  along  the  floor; 
Of  course  a  mother  too,  I  had,  and  sisters,  yes  and  brothers, 
But  yet  it  seemed  like  pa  and  me  had  more  fun  than  others; 
My  pa  was  very  good  to  me,  I  guess  he  loved  me  lots, 
But  every  pa  should  have  a  love  for  all  his  little  tots; 
Sometimes  for  me  when  shadows  creep,  along  the  weary  way. 
And  when  the  nights   seem  dark  and   long  and  lonely  is  the 

day, 

7Tis  then  I  wish,  so  very  much,  my  pa  could  come  to  me, 
That  we  might  play,  as  long  ago,  so  happy  and  so  free. 


YESTERDAY 

A  little  white  hand,  'twas  yesterday, 

An  Angel  held  and  led  by  the  way; 

The  sunlight  of  morn  made  a  path  for  the  child; 

Unlocked  was  the  gate  and  the  Angel  smiled. 

A  silken  veil  and  a  satin  gown, 
'Twas  yesterday  roses,  and  orange  bloom  crown; 
A  heart  and  a  hand  and  love  lead  the  way, 
Of  life — 'twas  the  gladsome  month  of  May. 

White  as  the  snow  of  Wint'ry  clime, 

An  Angel  turned  the  Key  of  Time ; 

'Twas  Yesterday  wove  the  garment  of  years, 

'Twas  Yesterday  covered  the  shroud  with  tears. 


Twentyseven 


LITTLE  WHISPERS 

There's  a  whisper  of  the  roses,  they  whisper  soft  to  you? 
As  they  nod  and  kiss  each  other  in  sparkling  jets  of  dew; 
Would    you    know    their    soft    sweet    story,    of  what  then 

whispers  say 
There  close  against  your  heart,  they'll  tell  you  all  the  day. 

There's  a  whisper  of  the  sea  shell,  the  Mermaids  story  tells 
Of  hide  and  seek  in  mosses,  of  pearls  in  cavern  dells; 
Then  listen  to  the  story  the  sea  shells  whisper  you, 
Perhaps  they'll  tell   you  something,    about   some  one  that  .'s 
true. 

There's  a  whisper  of  the  waters  as  they  murmur  to  the  sea, 
The  waving  leaves  they  whisper  upon  the  Maple  tree; 
We  love  to  hear  the  story  as  told  in  other  years, 
Of  angels  and  their  whispers,  of  smiles  and  maybe  tears. 


We  almost  hear  the  stars  in  shadow  of  the 
And  fleecy  clouds  they  whisper  of  storms  or  sunshine  bright, 
The  world  is  full  of  whispers  and  the  're  most  always  true, 
Please  love  this  little  whisper  I'm  sending  now  to  you. 


Twentyeight 


MY  WISH 

I  wish  that  I  were  a  boy  today, 
Out  there  on  the  sand  and  gravel  gray; 
Out  there  where  the  willows  hend  so  low, 
And  Alders  are  waving  too  and  fro, 
"Where  lizards  and  little  striped  snakes 
Crawl  o'er  the  ground  to  the  cool  of  brakes; 
I'd  roll  up  my  pants  and  wade  in  deep 
'Till  up  to  my  knees  the  water  would  creep. 

I'd  throw  some  stones  at  the  blue  jay  high, 
And  whistle  back  to  the  brown  bird's  cry; 
I'd  make  me  a  sling  of  leather  and  string, 
And  across  the  field  a  stone  I  would  fling; 
Out  of  a  willow  a  whistle  I'd  make, 
And  blow  'till  my  cheeks  would  nearly  break; 
I'd  sharpen  my  knife  on  a  piece  of  Done, 
And  carve  my  name  in  the  soft  sand-stone. 

With  a  piece  of  string  and  a  crooked  pin, 
A  tadpole  or  minnow  I'd  sure  bring  in, 
I'd  build  me  a  dam  of  sand  and  clay, 
And  wait  for  the  water  to  wash  it  away; 
I'd  whittle  a  boat  from  ai.  old  dry  board, 
And  watch  it  wreck  on  the  ripple  ford; 
I'd  skate  a  rock  on  the  waters  still, 
And  with  some  sand  I'd  build  a  hill. 

There  all  day  long  I  would  play  around, 
Where  softly  the  sunshine  falls  on  the  ground: 
'Tis  then  I'd  turn  from  my  happy  day 
To  my  dream-land  cot,  'neath  the  gable  gray; 
Perhaps  she'd  come — my  Mother  to  me, 
As  an  Angel  would  come  from  over  the  sea, 
To  tuck  me  away — the  boy  that  played 
All  day  long  in  the  sunshine  and  shade. 


Twentynine 


THE  END  OF  HIS  TRAIL 

A  King  came  down  from  the  North  last  week, 

A  king  from  the  frozen  sea; 
He  came  with  the  wind  from  cloua-capped  peak, 

To  the  land  of  meadow  lea; 
He  bared  his  throat  to  the  freezing  storm, 

And  crept  from  his  ice-bound  home; 
He  floated  away  as  a  ghost-like  form, 

From  the  frozen  sea  of  Nome. 

He  burdened  his  back  with  a  bag  of  foam, 

As  white  as  an  Eagle's  breast; 
As  cold  as  the  frost  from  ice-berg's  dome. 

In  the  land  of  sunset  rest. 
He  waited  his  time,  this  King  in  white, 

For  the  blow  of  the  Northern  gale; 
He  rode  the  way  in  the  dark  of  night, 

By  the  frosted,  frozen  trail. 

Golden  the  fruit  of  the  orange  grove, 

And  green  was  the  meadow  land; 
While  over  the  hills  the  shepherds  drove 

Their  peaceful  waiting  band ; 
The  palms  of  the  South  with  bended  leaves 

Made  shadows  soft  and  deep; 
The  sparrow  chirped  from  their  sheltered  eaves 

As  the  daylight  fell  asleep. 

A  curtain  blue  was  the  sun-lit  sky, 

All  over  this  land  of  love; 
The  violets  bloomed  for  the  passer  by, 

And  the  roses  bent  above. 
A  beautiful  picture  framed  in  gold, 

'Neath  the  Western  setting  sun; 
The  way  of  the  streams  to  ocean  bold, 

As  the  crystal  waters  run. 

The  King  came  down  by  his  frozen  way, 

Unloosing  his  heavy  load; 
He  covered  the  earth  in  white  that  day, 

And  every  tree  and  road ; 


Thirty 


The  orange  gold  and  the  violet  blue, 

He  shrouded  them  deep  in  snow, 
But  the  heart  of  man  was  ever  true, 

And  laughed  at  his  ghost-like  show. 

They  caught  him  there  on  his  throne  of  white, 

They  brought  him  down  to  earth; 
They  bound  him  tight  with  cords  that  night, 

And  laughed  in  their  gleeful  mirth, 
That  ride  was  his  doom,  for  they  built  him  a  tomb 

Of  the  snow  he  brought  with  the  gale; 
They  covered  him  o  'er  with  the  roses '  bloom, 

For  that  was  the  end  of  his  trail. 


THE  LILY  OF  EASTER 

As  white  as  a  flake  of  the  falling  snow, 
As  pure  as  the  crystal  waters  flow, 
The  Lily  of  Easter,  blooming  alone, 
As  if  for  a  world  of  sin  to  atone ; 
Stainless  at  dawn,  on  the  Easter  morn, 
As  out  from  the  earth  a  life  was  born. 

Only  a  kiss  of  the  morning  dew, 
An  Angel's  tear  for  me  and  for  you; 
From  the  earth  it  bloomed,  to  earth  again, 
As  an  humble  life,  not  lived  in  vain; 
From  our  God  a  gift  that  all  might  know 
The  infinite  love  He  would  bestow. 

The  morn,  the  day,  then  the  vesper  bells 
And  lilies,  gathered  from  gardens  and  dells; 
O'er  chancel  and  aisle  and  the  altar's  rail, 
A  symbol  of  love  that  ne'er  shall  fail; 
A  prayer  unspoken,  to  God,  in  appeal, 
While  tears  from  the  heart  in  sorrow  steal. 

A  broken  gate  and  an  empty  tomb, 
That  the  Easter  Lily  again  may  bloom. 


Thirtyone 


rn 


THE  TWO 

'Tis  here  the  beauty  and  there  the  dregs, 

Roses  a-bloom,  and  riotous  weeds; 
The  songs  of  the  rich— a  cry  that  begs, 

For  which  will  you  give  from  your  gift  of  deeds  ? 

The  stars  of  the  sky,  the  clods  of  earth, 

A  crown  of  gold  and  the  dross  of  clay; 
The  way  of  Wisdom — a  path  of  mirth, 

For  which  will  you  pray  when  your  prayers  you  say? 

A  ship  afloat— a  wreck  on  the  reei, 

The  gift  of  life— a  murderous  deed, 
A  shout  of  joy  and  a  sob  of  grief, 

For  which  will  you  preach  when  you  preach  your  creed » 

Valor  and  glory  and  crimes  of  nigiit, 
Freedom  of  thought  and  a  bond  of  tnongs, 

The  way  of  truth — forgetting  the  right, 
Of  which  will  you  sing  when  you  sing  your  songs? 

So  close  to  the  rose,  the  weed  that  grows, 

And  grain  that  bears  in  a  field  of  tares, 
A  beautiful  bloom  by  thistle  blows, 

They're  all  of  this  world,  our  world  of  cares. 

Of  the  life  we  live,  are  all  a  part, 

As  courage  may  walk  with  trembling  fears; 

The  beating  pulse,  a  sob  of  the  heart, 

Somehow  they're  mingled — all  mingled  with  tears. 


Thirtytwo 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STREAM 

I'll  go  ine  away  to  the  waters  flow, 

The  stream  with  its  rocks  and  its  ferns  that  grow; 

All  day  and  all  night,  'tis  the  water's  way, 

To  sing  as  it  goes  to  the  Ocean  grey. 

'Tis  louder  it  sings  when  the  dark  cloud  brings 
Its  shadows  and  storms,  and  its  dismal  things ; 
Softer  the  song  when  the  silver  of  light 
Shall  come  from  the  sun,  and  the  stars  of  night. 

I  will  wait  me  there  by  its  shaded  bank, 
By  its  willow  and  weed  and  grasses  rank; 
I'll  say  to  my  Soul,  'tis  a  song  for  thee, 
As  its  waters  go  to  the  deep  of  sea. 

I'll  say  to  my  life  of  shadows  and  tears, 
That's  mingled  with  grief  and  its  clinging  fears. 
The  song  that  comes  from  the  way  of  the  stream, 
A  lesson  for  all  shall  be  of  its  theme. 

Though  clouds  and  storms,  and  the  rocks  and  the  rifts 
Singing  it  goes  o'er  the  clay  and  the  cliffs; 
In  eddy  and  pool,  'tis  only  a  wait 
For  the  rider  ahead,  to  open  the  gate. 

Then  hark  to  the  song  the  stream  ever  brings, 

'Tis  only  of  joy  that  it  always  sings; 

Still  on  to  the  sea  forever  it  goes, 

To  the  tide-swept  shore  with  song  it  flows. 

Then  sit  me  down  on  the  bank  of  the  stream, 
And  mingle  my  thoughts  with  life  and  its  dream; 
Shall  it  be  songs  as  the  stream  to  the  sea, 
Or  shall  it  be  tears  to  Eternity. 


Thirtythree 


TOMORROW 

Tomorrow  I  shall  die, 
Today  I  look  to  blue  of  sky, 
And  out  upon  the  fields  of  greenf 
Out  there  upon  the  living  scene ; 
Today  I  hear  the  soft  winds  sigh, 
Tomorrow  I  shall  d?e. 

Today  a  wreath  of  May, 
Tomorrow  will  be  harvest  day; 
The  waters  running  down  to  spray 
Turn  never  backward  on  their  way; 
The  seconds  tick,  the  minutes  go, 
A  leaf  upon  the  snow. 

Today  the  sun  is  low, 
A  prayer  for  golden  after  glow; 
Along  the  path  the  shadows  creep, 
The  Thrush  of  song  hath  gone  to  sleep; 
You'll  live,  perhaps,  to  say  "Good-bye"; 
Tomorrow  I  shall  die. 

A  little  speck  of  breath, 
A  day  between  a  birth  and  death, 
Forget  me  when  I'm  wnite  and  cold, 
Forget  me  as  a  story  told; 
Tomorrow  at  the  close  of  day, 
I'll  go  upon  my  way. 


Thirtyfour 


THE  OLD  OX  SHOE 

They  dug  from  the  earth  a  rusted  shoe, 
A  symbol  betwixt  the  Old  and  tiie  New; 
For  the  rusted  shoe  was  worn  on  the  hoof 
Of  a  laboring  ox,  on  the  earth's  clay  roof; 
Deep  in  the  soil  where  the  city  stands, 
It  had  rusted  for  years  'neath  clinging  sands. 

A  crack  of  the  whip  and  "Who  haw  gee"! 
The  dusty  road  and  a  madrone  tree, 
A  creaking  yoke  and  a  wobbly  wheel 
From  an  oak,  as  strong  as  pounded  steel; 
Booted  and  brown  with  his  hair  grown  long, 
The  driver  as  tough  as  a  buckskin  thong. 

Cushioned  as  soft  as  a  couch  of  down, 
Polished  and  smooth  as  a  silken  gown, 
A  lever,  a  clutch  and  the  springing  wheels 
Scarce  touching  the  ground,  as  velvet  feels; 
Gloved  and  soft  were  the  hands  to  guide, 
Over  the  road  with  the  wind  to  ride. 

Of  hardship  and  toil  the  ox  shoe  told, 
Of  men  who  came  to  the  West  for  gold; 
Rugged  and  wild  was  the  life  they  led, 
Men  of  that  kind  for  the  wilderness  bred; 
The  mountain,  the  forest  and  rushing  stream, 
But  the  city  that  grew  was  only  a  dream  . 

The  Old  and  New  in  the  city  met, 

On  the  crowded  street  of  daily  fret, 

The  setting  sun  of  Memory  days, 

And  the  morning  dawn  of  golden  rays; 

The  "Who  haw  gee"  and  the  rusted  shoe, 

Over  their  graves  came  the  polished  New. 


Thirtyfive 


TWO  IN  A  BOAT 

Tis  zig-zag  then  where  the  waters  run  Tow,, 
And  straight  ahead  in  the  depth  of  the  flow, 
A  tangle  of  willows  sweeping  down  all  rank,, 
And  close  are  the  sands  to  the  River  bank. 

Sweethearts  or  friends  or  lovers  or  wed, 
A  boat  for  two,  In  the  glow  of  the  red, 
In  the  starlight  dim  or  the  moonlight  bright, 
A  splash  of  the  oars  or  a  song  of  night. 

There's  no  one  to  hear,  there *s  no  one  to  see? 
But  the  hooting  owl  in  the  big  oak  tree, 
Or  the  frog  in  the  pool  with  deep  bass  call, 
And  the  night  hawk  far  in  the  alders  tall. 

So  we  drift  along,  'tis  you  and  'tis  I,  s. 
With  a  lovers  kiss  and  a  lover's  sigh, 
By  the  river  banks  and. the  willow's  shade, 
Till  the  songs  of  the  night  in  sleep  shall  fade. 

'Tis  a  dream  of  life  for  youth  and  for  love, 
On  the  waters  still,  'neath  the  stars  above, 
The  splash  of  the  oars  and  a  boat  for  two— 
'Tis  the  river  at  night  for  lovers  true- 


Thirtysix 


LABOR  AND  WEALTH 

0  Labor!    Look  to  thy  home,  thy  land, 

Stay  the  wild  tumult!    Peace  to  thy  hand; 

See  the  fierce  carnage,  the  grind  and  the  deatn, 

Hear  the  deep  moan,  feel  the  hot  breath ; 

Pause  by  the  road-way,  shadow  thine  eyes, 

'Tis  the  sound  of  a  tempest,  the  dark  of  the  skies. 

0  Wealth  in  your  greed,  remember  thy  God! 
Remember  the  Man  who  bends  'neath  uie  rod ; 
Life  is  but  short,  but  measured  by  years, 
The  clod  and  the  clay,  the  grind  and  the  tears; 
Stay  thy  strong  hand  from  thorns  and  the  scourge, 
Greed  and  oppression — a  toll  and  a  dirge. 

0  Freedom!    Freedom,  hear  the  loud  cry, 
Thy  Flag  is  the  stars,  thy  blue  is  the  sky; 
From  Ocean  to  Ocean,  o'er  city  and  field, 
A  peace,  a  harvest,  a  fruitage  to  yield; 
Born  from  a  struggle,  protection  each  fold, 
A  Nation,  a  people,  from  lust  of  gold. 

0  cormorant  Wealth!    From  thy  gluttonous  feast 
Turn  to  the  Man  thou  wouldst  make  as  a  beast; 
From  thy  palace  go  out  and  eat  of  his  crust, 
Tread  his  long  pathway  of  toil  and  dust; 
Be  but  the  Man  for  the  stretch  of  a  dav, 

*>  7 

Justice  thy  scale,  weigh  fair  thy  pay. 

Make  not  of  Law  a  mockery  cheap, 
Purchased  by  price — scorning  its  keep; 
Honor!    'Tis  greater  than  Lord  or  King, 
Dishonor  but  death,  as  the  Serpent's  sting. 
The  car  with  the  wheel  in  its  journey  unite, 
If  broken,  a  wreck,  and  shorn  of  its  might- 


Thirtyseven 


Each  'tis  a  part,  by  welding,  a  strength, 
Twisted  the  rope,  no  flaw  in  its  length; 
Driven  apart  and  each  in  its  way, 
A  tangle  of  death  at  the  close  of  day. 
A  grasp  of  the  hand  a  lever  may  hold, 
In  that  grasp,  let  the  hand,  a  Soul  enfold. 

Save!    That  the  turn  of  a  haughty  heel 

May  never  be  met  by  the  flash  of  a  steel. 

Fly  the  white  flag  of  Labor  and  Wealth, 

Meet  in  the  open,  win  not  by  stealth; 

Pray  to  thy  God— He  ruleth  for  Peace; 

From  strife  and  from  war  bid  the  conflict  to  cease. 


MARGUERITE 

Marguerite,  I  loved  you — 
As  you  came  with  the  rosebud  in  your  hair, 

A  touch  of  the  sunbeam,  a  spray  of  the  heather; 
As  sweet  as  the  violets,  as  the  lily  fair. 

As  love  and  a  dream,  soft  mingled  together — 
For  you  were  my  love  Marguerite. 

Marguerite,  I  loved  you — 
You  stole  my  heart  as  you  came  in  the  sunlight, 

A  sprite  from  the  mount,  from  the  dell  of  the  birds. 
The  moon  and  the  stars  shone  brighter  at  night, 
And  the  chime  of  the  bells  I  softer  heard — 

For  you  were  my  Queen  Marguerite. 

Marguerite,  I  loved  you — 
Close  to  the  home  twines  the  flower  of  passion, 

'Neath  its  petals  a  cross — the  lintel  it  kisses. 
The  shadows  of  life  the  sunshine  doth  fashion; 
The  gold  of  the  rainbow,  the  child  ever  misses — 
For  you  were  my  life,  Marguerite. 

But  you  were  for  them  Marguerite — 
For  the  mountains  high  with  its  birds  and  its  bowers, 

From  the  stars  to  you  sweet  kisses  fell; 
And  the  breath  from  the  perfume  of  flowers. 
Left  only  for  me  was  the  toll  of  the  bell — 

For  the  warm  earth  loved  you  too,  Marguerite. 

Thirtyeight 


A  MAIDEN'S  WAY 

Two  lovers  went  out  for  a  walk  one  day, 

And  each  held  a  hand  as  they  wended  their  way, 

'Till  they  came  to  the  shade  of  a  green  oak  tree, 

Where  they  paused  by  the  path  so  wild  and  free; 

The  youth  was  bashful,  the  maid  was  so  shy 

That  sometimes  they  seemed  most  ready  to  cry. 

A  robin  there  sat  on  the  green  bough  above, 

He  saw  at  a  glance  'twas  a  case  of  true  love, 

He  looked  for  some  time  at  the  shy  lass  and  lad, 

And  he  thought  to  himself,  "To  bad,  too  bad", 

So  he  sang  this  song  with  hardly  a  stir, 

*  *  Tell  her  you  love  her,  how  dearly  you  love  her. ' ' 

With  a  blush  and  a  tremble  the  Miss  and  the  Man, 

Back  to  the  path  they  almost  ran; 

Down  to  the  glen  where  the  lilies  blow, 

They  stopped  by  a  stream  with  its  ripple  flow, 

They  chatted  and  talked — and  the  robin  forgot, 

Of  sensible  things,  they  said  not  a  lot. 

Not  far  away  perched  a  quail  on  a  post, 

Watching  his  family  of  ten  was  his  boast; 

The  lovers  he  spied  as  they  sat  by  the  stream, 

And  said  to  himself  "I'll  give  them  a  theme", 

He  swelled  up  his  throat  this  whistle  to  pipe, 

"Get  on  to  yourselves,  for  cherries  are  ripe". 

Then  they  moved  to  a  tree  where  an  Oriole  swung, 

To  his  mate  as  a  lover  many  songs  he  had  sung; 

He  knew  the  bold  way  of  courtship  in  air. 

And  felt  deep  chagrin  for  the  bashful  pair; 

So  this  was  the  song  that  he  sang  to  them  there, 

"If  you  love  her  then  kiss  her,  she  never  will  care." 

They  walked  to  their  homes  and  scarce  said  a  word, 

As  they  thought  of  the  birds  and  the  songs  they'd  heard 

She  was  so  sad  for  she  wished  he'd  said  more, 

And  he  ne'er  said  aught  but  good  bye  at  the  door; 

She  loved  him  so  much  she  was  ready  to  cry, 

He  loved  her  too,  but  was  awfully  shy. 

The  moral  to  this,  if  happy  you  'd  be, 

In  cottage  of  home  or  under  a  tree, 

If  you'd  win  the  sweet  lass  right  tnefe  by  your  side, 

Be  bold  as  a  King  if  you'd  make  her  your  bride. 

The  birds  told  you  how  the  sure  way  to  win, 

Then  hug  her  and  kiss  her  for  that  is  no  sin. 

Thirtynine 


KNUCKLE  DOWN 

In  days  when  you  were  but  a  boy, 
Those  days  for  you  of  greatest  joy— 
'Twas  when  you  played  all  kinds  of  games, 
With  boys  of  different  kind  and  names; 
With  marbles  round  both  blue  and  brown, 
Remember  how  you  used  to  knuckle  down. 

There  was  a  great  big  ring  so  round, 

'Twas  like  the  world  you  later  found; 
Outside  the  line,  with  all  your  might, 

You'd  shoot  your  "Taw"  at  bunch  in  sight; 

If  in  the  ring  you  chanced  to  stick, 

You  had  to  ' '  knuckle  down ' '  that  was  the  trick. 

The  boys  would  call  to  "knuckle  tight", 

If  you  should  "fudge"  there 'd  be  a  fight; 

Down  on  the  dust  you'd  hold  you;-  hand, 

And  aim  all  straight  a  prize  to  land; 

To  hit  it  square,  you'd  try  in  vain, 

Then  ' '  knuckle  down, ' '  you  'd  have  to  shoot  again. 

But  now,  as  years,  did  manhood  bring, 

You've  found  the  world  a  great  big  ring; 

'Tis  sometimes  hard  to  land  a  prize, 

For  worlds  are  round  and  great  big  size; 

'Tis  sure  you're  in  the  line  for  life, 

Don't  "fudge"  but  "knuckle  down"  and  win  the  strife. 


Forty 


"What  shall  it  be  some  day — a  smile  or  tears; 
'Some  day  when  the  heart  may  be  heavy  with  fears? 
We  are  waiting  and  counting — the  steps  are  not  long, 
Some  of  them  steep  and  some  with  a  song; 
But  that  matters  not,  there's  an  ending  some  day, 
When  clouds  shall  gather  and  dim  is  the  way. 

What  shall  we  do  when  the  Master  shall  come> 

Firm  shall  we  stand,  or  fear  as  the  dumb ! 

When  curtains  are  drawn  and  the  lights  are  bedimmedv 

Shall  our  candle  be  burning,  or  dark  and  untrimmed; 

Shall  we  look  jjust  ahead  to  the  hour  that  ends, 

And  smile  as  we  whisper  "Good  bye"  to  our  friends? 

There's  a  sob  of  the  wind,  that  tells  of  the  Fall, 
Of  the  strewing  of  leaves,  for  death  and  its  call; 
There's  a  cloud  for  the  storm — the  hiding  of  light. 
And  the  setting  of  sun  foreshadows  the  night; 
The  foam  and  the  moan  for  the  shipwreck  at  sea. 
And  the  white  of  the  snow  is  a  shroud  for  the  lea. 

Wbo  knows  when  the  Master  may  call  for  the  Soul, 
When  the  gate  shall  swing  open  to  take  of  its  toll  ? 
The  laughter  and  song  and  trip  of  the  dance, 
Shall  be  hushed  with  life  at  a  thrust  of  the  Lance. 
What  shall  we  do  and  what  shall  we  say — 
Some  day — when  the  Master  shall  call  to  this  clay. 


Fortyone 


THE  CITY  BEAUTIFUL 

Over  the  City  Beautiful,  a  spider's  web  was  spun, 
Over  the  City  Beautiful,  the  silver  threads  were  run; 
A  picture  of  the  city  'twas  hung  in  frame  of  gilt, 
A  painting  of  the  city  in  beauty  that  was  built; 
Its  waving  trees  'neath  sunlight,    its  homes  and  flowers 

and  lawn 

Were  colored  into  beauty  as  clouds  of  morning  dawn; 
As  Garden  of  sweet  Eden,  rehearsed  in  songs  of  old, 
The  painting  told  the  story,  in  frame  of  gilt  and  gold. 

One  almost  heard  the  song-bird,  almost  felt  tne  sunlignt; 
Could  see,  the  blue  of    ether,    where  stars    pinned  back  the 

night; 
The  soft  wind  from  the  South-land  that  kissed  each  tree  of 

green 

And  perfume  of  the  flowers,  and  violets  there  between; 
Could  hear  the  children's   laughter   and   river's  murmuring 

song; 

'Twas  May-day  of  the  Springtime  and  days  were  never  lone 
All  these  were  in  the  picture,  in  colors  bright  and  bold, 
The  picture  that  was  painted,  in  frame  of  gilt  and  gold. 

A  spider  found  the  picture  and  wove  its  web  across— 
Across  each  door  and  lintel  it  spun  its  silken  floss 
From  trees  to  all  the  flowers  and  then  across  the  street, 
By  windows  and  by  gateways,  each  little  thread  would  meet 
Across  each  busy  highway  it  wove  its  silver  bars, 
And  tangled  up  the  city,  a  city  'neath  the  stars. 
But  this  was  on  the  picture,  the  spider  spun  its  breath- 
Only  on  the  picture — it  wove  its  web  of  death. 


Fortytwo 


HULLO  JIM! 

Out  there  on  the  hill — a  Springtime  day, 

The  marble  and  granite  of  white  and  gray; 

Blossoms  of  gold  and  myrtle  of  blue, 

Beneath  them  the  green  of  mosses  grew; 

One  was  my  friend,  I  stopped  by  the  mound 

Where  flowers  of  Spring  were  thick  on  the  ground; 

My  boyhood  chum  and  I  called  him  "Jim", 

•We  lived  and  loved  'till  the  Reaper  grim 

Called  for  him,  on  a  night  so  dark — 

With  sails  unfurled  was  the  waiting  bark 

Just  out  of  the  door — they  took  him  away 

With  'naugnt  of  time  "Goodbye"  to  say. 

So  yesterday  bright,  I  was  thinking  of  him 

And  thought  I  would  say  just  "Hullo  Jim"! 

Out  there  where  he  was  sleeping  so  still 

'Neath  shadows  brown,  that  crept  o'er  the  hill; 

There  I  talked  to  him  of  long  ago, 

Of  youth  when  life  was  all  aglow; 

Of  streams  where  fishes  came  to  hook, 

Of  the  an  tier 'd  deer  of  shaded  nook, 

Of  lights  of  day  of  shadows  of  night, 

Of  the  tufted  quail  so  swift  in  its  flight, 

Of  over  the  hills,  through  forests  deep, 

Where  paths  and  roads  were  rough  and  steep; 

'Twas  a  dreamy  day  and  sure  I  could  see 

A  Spirit  that  came  o'er  the  hill  to  me. 

A  forget-me-not  I  left  on  his  grave, 

Only  one  flower,  'twas  all  that  I  gave; 

Then  I  said  "Goodbye"  to  Jim  again, 

As  I  walked  the  way  of  Life's  long  lane. 

Maybe  sometime  we  will  meet  out  there, 

When  the  Master  shall  come  and  take  of  His  fare, 

He'll  meet  me  there  when  I  call  to  him, 

Then  again  I'll  say  "Hullo"  to  Jim. 


Fortythree 


MY  DREAM  TOWN 

Twas  once,  back  there,  in  my  Dream 

I  happy  lived— not  long  ago, 
Its  houses  all  were  castles  brown, 

Some  gabled  high  and  some  were  low. 

In  my  Dream  Town,  white  locust  grew, 
And  deep  their  shadows  crossed  each  walk 

When  Autumn  came,  their  leaves  all  flew, 
And  evening  songs,  were  Cricket's  talk. 

The  birds,  they  sang,  in  my  Dream  Town, 
The  roses  all  were  colored  fair; 

The  birds  were  decked  in  feathers  brown 
And  flow'ry  perfume  filled  the  air. 

O'er  my  Dream  Town  the  silv'ry  moon 
Looked  very  big  and  round  and  white; 

And  too,  the  stin,  at  brightest  noon, 
Sent  down  its  beams  of  mellow  light. 

/In  my  Dream  Town  I  had  a  home, 
By  Maple  trees  all  shaded  deep; 

Above  me  was  the  sky's  bltie  dome, 
And  little  streams  sang  me  to  sleep. 

Now  my  Dream  Town,  it's  almost  gone, 

And  fading  fast  is  all  the  light; 
•Twas  way  back  there  just  at  the  dawn, 

But  now  for  me  'tis  nearly  night. 


Fortyfour 


SUNSET  ON  RUBIDOUX 

Soft  was  the  glow  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Gleaming  as  gold,  from  out  of  the  West; 
Winding  the  road  to  the  cross  of  gray, 
Shadows  all  deep  at  the  close  of  day. 

Hushed  was  the  cry  of  the  mountain  bird, 
Stilled  from  its  throat,  no  song  was  heard ; 
Away  in  the  valley,  the  orange  groves  deep 
As  fields  of  yellow,  just  kissing  to  sleep. 

A  city  of  lights,  as  stars  of  the  night, 
Uncurtained  each  gleam,  in  silvery  white; 
"Good  night"  to  the  Cross,  away  on  the  hill, 
From  the  beautiful  city  in  valley  so  still. 

Soft  was  the  whisper  of  evening  breeze, 

As  an  echo  song,  was  the  hush  o'er  the  trees; 

Floating  a  cloud,  by  the  hills  away, 

A  curtain,  God  sent  for  the  closing  day. 

Out  from  the  south  o'er  desert  sand, 
Plodding  the  way  of  the  sunburned  land; 
As  priest  and  teacher  in  days  of  old, 
The  saving  of  souls  was  more  than  gold. 

A  long  weary  path  of  brambles  and  stone, 
The  chant  of  a  priest  as  he  stood  alone; 
Only  the  mountain,  the  rocks  and  wild, 
Cut  from  the  cliffs,  then  rugged  piled. 

Today,  from  the  century's  early  morn, 
The  cross  on  the  hill  without  its  thorn; 
Mellow  in  twilight,  the  Angels  came, 
In  memory  carved  a  father's  name. 

Goodnight,  Oh  cross,  on  the  mountain  high, 
'Neath  the  blue  and  peace  of  the  western  sky; 
The  sunset  shall  paint  thee  a  golden  crown, 
And  starlight  shall  weave  thee  a  silver  gown. 


Fortyfive 


LITTLE  BLUE  BELLS 

In  her  cradle  she  slept,  little  Bluebells  unkept, 
Dreaming  of  Fairies  that  baby  thought  carries; 
Little  tear  stains  like  dew-drops  of  rain, 
On  curls  that  were  tangled,  as  golden  threads  spangled. 

'Twas  just  over  there,  a  white  face  fair, 
Sobbing  a  breath,  awaiting  for  death; 
'Neath  a  coverlet  white,  in  still  of  the  night, 
A  mother's  heart  broken,  all  silent,  unspoken. 

In  dark  of  the  night,  swept  the  storm  in  its  fright, 
Hidden  the  stars  and  the  red  light  of  Mars; 
Bright  gleaming  moon  was  shadowed  in  gloom, 
A  darkness  so  drear,  in  a  kingdom  of  fear. 

A  crash  in  the  storm,  a  mangled  dark  form, 
Borne  on  the  way,  where  death  is  the  pay; 
A  father  asleep,  where  the  sea  mosses  creep, 
Asleep  from  the  crash  of  the  wild  waves  dash. 

One  shadow  came  down  for  the  man  that  was  drowned, 
And  one  for  the  soul  of  a  mother — its  toll; 
They  took  him  away  from  the  white  foam  and  spray, 
The  other — all  wound  in  a  white  shroud  was  found. 

Smiling  from  dreaming,  the  sunlight  came  streaming, 
The  sunlight  for  Bluebells,  for  meadows  and  uells; 
It  kissed  the  wild  flowers,  the  sun-gleams  in  showers 
And  mellowed  each  note  from  the  song  birds  throat. 

Alone  little  Blue-bells,  alone,  all  it  tells, 
The  foam  of  the  sea  and  the  sod  of  the  lea, 
Wrapped  soft  in  their  hold,  held  close  in  their  fold, 
The  love  of  a  mother,  the  kiss  of  the  other. 
O  world  full  of  life;    0  world  in  its  strife! 
0  world  of  heart  throbs,  and  world  of  child  sobs, 
They  are  woven  together,  are  mingled  like  heaiher 
With  thorns  that  are  hidden,  and  sorrows  unbidden. 

0  Angel  of  Pity!    In  God's  golden  city, 
Watch  over  the  child,  of  a  desolate  wild, 

Fortysix 


Where  man  in  his  greed,  forgets  of  kind  deeds, 
And  the  little  white  hand  in  this  golden  land. 

The  child  of  today,  alone  on  its  way— 
They  are  ours  from  birth,  a  part  of  this  earth, 
They  know  not  of  love,  save  from  God  above ; 
Then  give  from  your  heart,  sweet  Charity's  part. 


AWAY  FROM  THE  CITY 

I  might  live  my  life  in  the  city — 
Where  houses  of  marble  are  builded, 
Where  its  walks  and  its  ways  are  gilded, 
Where  its  streets  and  its  lights  are  a-gl earning. 
And  its  rush  all  the  day  goes  a-streaming. 

I  might  live  my  life  in  a  city — 
But  somehow  there's  something  out  here, 
With  the  ferns  and  fragrance  of  fir, 
The  stories  from  whisp'ring  breeze, 
And  the  wooing  of  flowers  and  trees. 

I  might  live  my  life  in  a  city— 
But  there's  something  out  here  that's  calling 
As  soft  as  the  Autumn  leaves  falling; 
And  close  to  their  love  I  am  waiting, 
As  the  birds  of  Springtime  in  mating. 

I  might  live  my  life  in  a  city— 
But  somehow  the  peaks  and  the  mountains, 
The  streams  as  gushing  of  fountains, 
Where  sunshine  is  hung  by  the  way, 
And  paths  lead  to  flowers  of  May. 

I  might  live  my  life  in  a  city— 
But  somehow  the  earth  and  the  sod, 
I  am  sure  are  closer  to  God 
And  the  Gate,  that  softly  shall  swing 
For  the  Hope,  to  which  you  and  I  cling. 


Fortyseven 


BLOWING  THE  BUBBLES 

Blowing  the  bubbles, 
Only  childhood  troubles; 
Rainbow  bubbles,  floating  in  air, 
Sunshine  bubbles  of  colors  rare; 
One,  two,  three,  floating  away, 
Falling  again  as  specks  of  spray; 
Everywhere,  nowhere,  falling  to  ground, 
Wingless  Fairies  all  around. 

Blowing  the  bubbles, 
Youth's  little  troubles; 

Spring  time  and  May  day,  then  comes  June, 
Flowers  and  songs,  life's  all  atune; 
Mary  and  Mildred,  John  and  Frank, 
Cupid  and  roses  thin  the  rank; 
Bubbles  with  pictures  of  love  each  day, 
Bubbles  with  wings  that  fly  away. 

Blowing  the  bubbles, 

Bending  with  troubles; 

Colorless  bubbles  on  the  white  snow, 

One,  two,  three,  how  dim  they  grow; 

Toward  Heaven  they're  floating,  away  in  air, 

Away  to  the  sky,  away  up  tiiere, 

Coming  back  as  Angels  all  in  white, 

Beautiful  bubbles,  for  a  soul  in  flight. 


Fortyeight 


MOTHER  LOVE 

A  perfect  rose  of  sweet  perfume, 
Woven  bright  in  Heaven's  loom, 
.Sunlight  threads  and  Angel's  hands, 
White  and  red  and  golden  bands^ 
God  made  the  rose,  a  morning  fair, 
And  in  His  garden  placed  with  care. 

At  noon,  a  soul,  God  gave  to  earth, 
For  human  clay,  'twas  given  birth. 
His  breath,  His  life — He  made  the  Man, 
Through  every  vein  His  semblance  ran; 
Beauty  and  strength  to  him  He  gave, 
For  conflict  then,  He  made  him  brave. 

A  Mother's  love  God  made  at  eve — 
Shadows,  tears,  and  heart  to  grieve; 
The  folding  arms  and  waiting  way, 
The  longing  night  and  weary  day; 
An  Angel  came  and  held  her  hand, 
She  whispered  love  o'er  all  the  land. 

The  petaled  rose — at  noon  it  fell, 
The  Soul  went  out  at  tolling  bell; 
For  Mother's  love,  there  was  no  death, 
All  else,  He  garnered,  with  a  breath. 


Fortynine 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  LEAVES 

Down  to  the  dell  the  North  wind  crept, 
Where  the  leaves  of  Autumn  softly  slept  j 
The  oak,  the  maple,  the  ash  and  the  beech 
All  mingled  their  leaves,  'twas  away  for  each. 
Sing  Hi !    Sing  Ho !    To  the  dance  we  Jll  go, 
To  the  meadow,  the  meadow,  away  in  a  blow  I 

They  were  lovers  those  leaves  and  each  of  a  kind 

To  nestle  so  close  as  they  entwined ; 

A  whirl  and  a  swirl,  the  North  wind's  song, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  the  whole  night  long. 

Sing  Hi !    Sing  Ho !   As  they  rode  away 

To  dance  on  the  meadow,  to  dance  and  play. 

The  swing  of  the  trees,  'twas  fiddle  and  bow, 
As  the  wind  did  blow,  both  too  and  fro; 
The  moon  and  the  stars  their  soft  light  shed 
For  the  leaves  all  dressed  in  brown  and  red. 
Sing  Hi !    Sing  Ho !   And  swing  them  around, 
For  the  dance  of  the  leaves,  to  the  meadow  bound, 


MY  VALENTINE 

A  stolen  kiss,  a  stolen  love,  a  stolen  heart, 

If  to  return  to  you  in  whole  or  only  part, 

Should  mean,  of  stealing  more,  then  just  between  us  two— 

The  punishment — I  sure  would  leave  it  all  to  you- 

If  I,  imprisoned,  and  you  the  keeper  with  the  key, 

Then  fully  satisfied,  I'm  sure  that  I  would  be; 

If  bars  were  made  of  only  sunshine,  I'd  not  care, 

Nor  if  the  gate  were  locked  by  silken  thread  of  hair; 

'Tis  then  that  I  would  steal  the  Keeper,  'twould  be  best, 

Return  the  kiss  and— well  I'd  keep  the  rest. 


Fift; 


MOUNT  SAINT  HELENA 

Uncoffined  the  great  mount  lies  in  death, 
A  massive  form,  bereft  of  Nature's  breath; 
The  hills  beside  and  at  its  base  do  meet 
As  soldiers  sleeping,  when  their  last  drum  beat 
Shall  have  sounded  and  left  them  waiting  there 
Beside  their  tow 'ring  King,  unmasked  and  bare 
Save  as  the  mould  of  gray,  about  each  mound 
That  clings  like  cerements  close  around: 
The  mountain — it  their  high  born  lordly  King, 
To  ether  peaks,  where  wild  of  winds  shall  sing. 

A  page  from  out  Earth's  master  book,  so  high 
The  great  mount  stands,  embossed  against  the  sky; 
The  white  of  sun  and  red  of  streaming  Mars 
Upon  the  cover  there,  of  blue  and  stars ; 
There  writ  upon  its  sides,  in  letters  scarred— 
Time's  words — all  cut  and  heavy  barred 
With  gapping  seam,  and  crevice  dark  and  deep; 
While  Centuries  in  everlasting  sweep 
Piled  into  longer  time — of  decades, 
'Till  Mind 's  Eternal  'thought  in  grasping,  fades. 
There  the  story  told  of  Ocean  storm, 
The  dim  line  of  shell's  decaying  form; 
Lashing  against  steep  sides,  banked  and  beating, 
But  marks  of  living  life,  e're  its  retreating; 
Seamed  again  between  its  ridges  narrow 
Canyons,  deep  cut  to  very  mountain's  marrow 
By  rushing  waters,  strewing  the  plain  below 
With  chips  from  master  block — ages  ago; 
And  there  the  cleft  of  rocks  cut  sharp  and  tall, 
Against  the  Wrestern  wind,  a  deadened  wall. 
'Twas  there  the  lightning's  gleaming  path,  deep  burned 
As  zigzag  on  its  way  it  ever  turned; 
Above,  the  lone  peak  touches  blue  of  sky, 
And  deadened  cone  lies  hollowed,  banking  high 
Its  sides,  where  tumult,  once,  of  heat  and  fire 
Poured  out  in  reddened  wave  upon  its  pyre; 
And  then  the  sweep  of  cold  in  icy  breath 
Kissed  the  giant  to  its  frozen  death; 
There,  Time,  measured  into  ages  passed 
This  dead  Thing  sleeping  left,  on  bed  deep  grassed, 
As  playing  child  would  leave  a  pile  of  sand 
When  soft  of  shadow  eve  led  by  the  hand. 


Fiftvone 


GOOD-BYE 

lofood-bye  is  a  tear  from  the  throbbing  liearl., 
A  footstep  on  roads  that  drift  apart; 
A  cloud  that  comes  o  'er  the  sunlit  day, 
The  night  that  weeps  by  the  pulseless  Clay. 

Spoken  today,  all  thoughtless,  perchance, 
"Pis  never  again  a  word  or  a  glance  ;• 
The  great  wide  world,  its  sorrows  and  sighsy 
But  saddest  of  all  the  last  good-byes. 

Oh  hearts  that  have  loved  as  side  by  side, 
And  hands  that  have  touched  all  true  and  tried; 
'Tis  some  time,  'tis  some  day,  somewhere  ahead,, 
"Good-bye"  the  last  word  that  may  be  said. 

Speak  softly,  Oh  soul,  that  would  go  thy  way,, 
No  one  may  know,  no  one  may  say; 
Sorrow  and  hope  and  the  homeless  sigh 
May  all  be  there  in  the  last  Good-bye1,. 


PLEASE 

In  the  garden  are  flowers  and  scarlet  weeds., 
In  the  world  are  the  good  and  sinful  deeds; 
We  tell  of  them  both  in  our  words  and  song, 
What  is  right  for  you,  and  for  me  is  wrong; 
Each  man  from  his  neighbor  shall  differ  in  way, 
Please  judge  me  kindly  of  what  I  may  say. 


Fiftytwo 


MY  DOCTOR  FRIEND 

Whirling  around  he  goes, 
Wonderful  men  these  doctors  of  ills, 
In  auto  with  grip  and  box  of  pills, 
Over  the  roads  so  dusty  and  dry, 
Skirting  the  hills  'neath  the  summer  sky; 
Out  so  early  and  then  so  late 
To  hold  back  souls  from  the  Pearly  gate. 
Whirling  around  he  goes- 

To  the  little  brown  house  in  roses  deep, 
To  the  cradle  there  with  its  babe  asleep, 
Crooning  aloud  a  sweet  lullaby. 
When  the  babe  awakes  with  it  piteous  cry, 
Telling  the  mother  the  child  shall  live, 
Seeking  the  balm  of  life  to  give. 
Whirling  around  he  goes- 

Up  on  the  hill  where  the  old  man  waits, 
Sitting  so  close  by  the  fireside  grate, 
Silvered  and  bowed,  with  trembling  hand 
He  is  reading  about  the  promised  land; 
Closing  the  door  against  all  noise, 
Each  telling  the  story  of  when  they  were  boys. 
AVhirling  around  he  goes- 
Mother  and  child  and  father  and  son, 
To  see  each  one  ere  the  day's  work  is  done, 
Smoothing  the  pillow,  telling  of  hope, 
With  all  kinds  of  ills  endeavor  to  cope, 
Holding  each  hand  as  life  ebbs  low, 
Counting  each  pulse  of  heart  beats  slow. 
Whirling  around  he  goes- 
Man  and  minister,,  teacher  and  priest, 
Hungry  today  and  then  at  a  feast, 
Storms  of  winter  and  summer's  heat. 
Down  each  alley,  and  up  each  street, 


Fiftythree 


Hurrying,  skurrying  a  life  to  save, 
A  doctor  with  his  heart  so  brave. 
Whirling  around  he  goes- 
Bye  and  bye  the  ranks  shall  close, 
Then  touching  the  doctor  the  cold  wind  blows, 
His  bottles  all  empty,  and  rusty  his  knife, 
His  trembling  hands  have  felt  the  strife, 
Then  the  Pearly  gates  shall  open  wide, 
And  through  it  the  doctor  his  auto  shall  ride, 
Straight  into  heaven. 


WHY? 

Five  times  each  day  upon  the  burning  sands 
He  knelt  and  raised  in  prayer  his  sunburned  hands; 
Five  times  each  day  he  thanked  his  Allah  great 
For  life,  for  freedom,  on  his  desert  State. 

The  hot  simoon,  the  drifting  scorching  gray, 
The  camel's  footprints  winding  each  its  way; 
An  Arab  he,  we  call  of  heathen  birth, 
He  thanked  his  God  for  that  his  home  on  earth. 

The  bright  sunshine  and  breath  of  dewy  morn, 
The  fruitage  fields  and  tasselled,  waving  corn; 

Colored  deep  in  flowers  and  beauty  everywhere, 
A  garden  on  this  earth  without  a  thought  of  care. 

Five  times  and  more,  along  his  path  each  day 
He  cursed  his  God  and  turned  from  Him  away; 

The  one  of  Christian  name,  in  Christian  land; 

The  one  an  Arab  of  Sahara's  burning  sand. 


NEVER  TOO  SMALL 

A  mouse  and  a  chip  and  a  chicka-dee, 
Are  three  little  things  very  small  to  see; 
Good  food  for  the  cat  is  the  mouse  so  small, 
A  chip  makes  a  home  for  the  cricket's  call, 
A  bug  does  the  chicka-dee  eat  for  food; 
To  the  small  of  earth  you  should  not  be  rude, 
To  the  mouse  and  chip  or  the  cmcka-dee, 
For  God  made  them  each  some  use  to  be. 

Fiftyfour 


SNIP  AND  SNARL 

Snip  and  Snarl,  were  my  two  dogs, 
When  I  was  a  boy  by  the  fire-place  logs; 
Snip  was  white  and  about  as  tall 
As  the  potted  fern  that  grew  in  the  hall; 
Snarl  was  big  and  grizzled  and  gray, 
And  always  ready  for  a  fight  or  a  fray. 

Not  very  good  dogs  for  a  beauty  prize, 

For  they  differed  so  much  in  looks  and  size ; 

Snarl  would  bite  if  a  stranger  came, 

But  Snip  was  usually  very  lame; 

They  were  my  dogs  and  I  did  not  care, 

For  they'd  fight  for  me  at  the  slightest  dare. 

All  day  long  they  would  play  with  me, 
Out  in  the  sun  or  shade  of  the  tree; 
The  rabbits  and  rats  and  mice  and  moles, 
For  them  they'd  run  and  dig  in  their  holes; 
In  the  running  creek  if  I'd  throw  a  stick, 
They'd  bring  it  back,  'twas  a  simple  trick. 

"Good  Morning  Snarl",  and  he'd  never  fail 
To  give  me  his  paw  and  wag  his  tail; 
"Roll  over  Snip"  if  you  want  some  bread, 
His  answer  would  show  he  knew  what  I  said; 
I  could  hear  them  bark  from  far  away, 
And  could  almost  tell  just  what  they'd  say. 

Whether  you're  young  or  whether  your 're  old, 

If  you  want  a  friend  as  good  as  gold 

To  follow  you  close,  the  life  long  trail, 

No  matter  what  happens,  he'll  never  fail, 

For  your  faithful  dog  will  fight  for  you 

If  you'r  rich  or  poor  or  happy  or  blue; 

Like  Snip  and  Snarl  were  good  to  me, 

'Till  I  buried  them  there  'neath  an  apple  tree. 


Fiftyfive 


RETRIBUTION 

A  spider  spun  its  silver  thread 
In  corner,  dark  and  grim; 

A  corner  square  of  rough  hewn  stones, 
Marked  rude  with  skull  and  bones; 

A  spider  black  with  beady  eyes, 
And  legs  of  thread  like  size. 

A  ray  of  light  through  iron  bars, 
The  sunshine  from  the  sun; 

The  sunshine  made  a  crimson  red, 
Upon  the  silver  web; 

'Twas  all  the  color  in  the  cell, 
As  dark  as  ebon  Hell. 

The  spider  toiled  and  wove  its  life 

In  each  and  every  thread; 
Each  thread  cut  from  its  measured  span, 

As  want  takes  life  from  man; 
But  God  sent  in  one  ray  of  light, 

To  paint  the  web  of  night. 

A  heavy  breath,  a  murmured  curse, 
The  world  was  all  outside; 

Outside  the  world  of  freedom  air 
Where  laughter  banished  care; 

The  rose  that  grows  beside  the  way, 
Grows  thorns  for  every  day. 

A  hand  that  never  knew  of  toil, 

As  cold  as  icy  chill; 
With  icy  chill  as  cold  as  death, 

It  crushed  the  spider's  breath, 
It  tore  its  web  of  silver  gleam, 

And  cursed  the  sunlight  stream. 

Naught  else  of  life  behind  the  bars — 

Only  the  one  alone ; 
Alone  behind  the  bars  so  cold, 

A  craven  soul  was  sold; 
Out  in  the  world  of  freedom  air, 

Crushed  hearts  like  spider's  hair. 


Fiftysix 


BURNING  BRAMBLES 

The  Spring  was  best  for  clearing  time,  when  me  and  pa 

were  boys, 

Before  I'd  go  to  bed  at  night  and  put  away  my  toys, 
Pa'd  say  to  me:   "Tomorrow,   son,  some  brambles  we  must 

burn ; 
"A  little  field  way  down  the  road,  of  thorns  and  thick  wit  It 

fern." 

When  morning  came  I  ate  my  mush  and  fed  the  dog  and  cat, 
And  then  from  ma  some  matches  got  and  found  my  olde* 

hat; 

We  started  out  to  work  that  day  for  me  and  pa  worked  hard. 
He'd  say  to  me:  "Come  on,  my  boy",  as  if  I  were  his  pard; 
I  found  a  piece  of  old  rail  fence  and  whittled  shavings  thin, 
While  pa  piled  up  some  brush  and  weeds,  much  higher  than 

his  chin; 

I  took  a  match  from  off  the  bunch,  that  ma  had  given  me, 
I  scratched  it  then  upon  my  pants,  right  there  upon  my  kneo ; 
Gee  whiz!    The  flames  and  smoke  and  sparks,  they  went  a 

curling  high, 
And  then  some  smoke  got  in  my  eyes  and  almost  made  me 

cry; 

You  ought  to  see  the  rats  and  mice  and  little  rabbits  gray, 
They  climbed  amongst  the  weeds  and  brush  and  some  ran 

far  away; 

A  lot  of  sparks  lit  on  my  hat  and  some  lit  on  my  dog, 
But  Towser  only  wagged  his  tail,  and  barked  behind  a  log; 
I  used  to  like  to  brambles  burn  and  see  the  fire  run, 
With  little  boys  that  kind  of  work  is  always  half  way  fun. 
While  we  were  going  home  that  night,  my  pa,  to  me  he  said, 
"You'll  find  the  world  of  brambles  full,  and  many  thorn? 

ahead ; 
"You'd  better  keep  along  the  road,  where  brambles  never 

grow, 
1 '  If  you  of  honor  care  to  reap,  you  must  of  good  deeds  sow. ' ' 


Fifty  seven 


THE  WEEK 

Tis  Sunday  morning,  don't  you  hurry, 
For  naught  this  day  of  fuss  or  flurry; 
So  wear  good  clothes  and  comb  your  hair, 
And  go  to  church  and  say  a  prayer, 
And  then  come  home,  of  chicken  eat, 
And  take  a  walk  way  down  the  street. 
When  darkness  comes  then  sing  a  song, 
And  go  to  sleep  for  all  night  long. 

'Tis  Monday  morn  and  you  feel  blue, 
You've  got  to  work  for  bills  are  due; 
If  selling  goods  or  digging  spuds, 
Or  cooking  food  or  washing  duds, 
You've  got  to  work  from  morn  'till  night, 
To  exercise  your  muscles  right. 
Don't  grow  cross  at  friend  or  foe, 
Then  very  quick  will  Monday  go. 

'Tis  Tuesday  morning — settle  down 
And  don't  be  cross  and  do  not  frown, 
For  work  is  good,  you're  in  the  swim, 
So  closely  stick,  with  zest  and  vim; 
For  all  the  day  'tis  but  a  game, 
So  don't  break  down  or  don't  go  lame; 
When  night  shall  come  you'll  be  ahead, 
Then  .give  of  thanks  for  daily  bread. 

You've  pulled  through  fine  for  Wednesday  morn, 

Then  be  so  glad  that  you  were  born 

And  grind  the  corn  and  make  some  meal, 

'Tis  doing  things — how  good  you  feel; 

Then  laugh  and  smile  and  happy  be, 

You've  swam  half  way  across  the  sea. 

The  clock  has  ticked    the  hours  away, 

And  you  have  won  the  fight  that  day. 

A  Thursday  morn  has  come  to  you, 
'Tis  strange  how  fast  the  hours  flew; 
Then  tie  your  shoe  strings  good  and  tight, 
That  they  may  hold  until  the  night; 


Fiftyeiffht 


Roll  up  your  sleeves  if  hard  the  toil, 
Don't  be  afraid  your  hands  will  soil; 
When  night  shall  come,  then  you'll  go  home, 
'Tis  better  than  the  world  to  roam. 

Tis  Friday  morn  the  day  for  fish, 

'Twill  make  a  very  savory  dish, 

They'll  give  you  strength  and  help  your  brain, 

So  every  day  you'll  courage  gain. 

So  fast  the  week  is  going  by, 

But  hard  you've  worked,  so  do  not  cry; 

Unlucky,  some  the  day  may  term, 

But  luck's  with  you  if  you  stand  firm. 

The  week  has  sped  to  Saturday, 
You've  worked  right  hard  to  win  the  fray; 
'Tis  sure  you  never  will  regret 
The  cares  and  troubles  you  have  met; 
In  winning  them  you've  honor  gained, 
As  soldiers  for  a  fight  have  trained. 
So  close  the  week  and  close  it  fair, 
For  you  'twill  be  an  answered  prayer. 

Each  day  the  week,  to  you  may  bring, 
Shall  be  as  pearls  upon  a  string; 
So  live  them  right,  for  after  dawn 
They  come  and  go — forever  gone. 
They're  part  of  sorrow  part  of  joys, 
But  worry  not  o'er  broken  toys. 
The  week  days  each  for  you  are  made, 
So  do  vour  best — be  not  afraid. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  DAY 


A  day  from  the  night,  on  the  peak  was  born; 
A  cradle  of  clouds  was  the  gift  of  morn. 
Away  over  there  was  a  shadow  gray  , 
God  brushed  its  away  for  the  coming  day; 
Then  He  took  from  the  sun  its  radient  beams, 
And  He  fashioned  a  brush  of  silvery  gleams; 
Then  He  painted  the  trees  in  glistening  white, 
For  birth  of  day,  that  was  born  of  the  night. 


Fiftynine 


A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR 

To  you,  from  friend,  away  out  West, 

A  "New  Year"  greeting,  of  the  best. 

For  you,  for  every  day  of  year, 

A  "Heart"  that  knows  not  aught  of  fear; 

A  "Home",  that  sweetest  place  of  earth, 

Of  "Plenty"  may  there  be  no  dearth; 

May  "Love"  that  binds,  be  good  and  true, 

And  "Joy"  and  "Peace"  each  share  with  you; 

May  all  of  "Good"  that  Heaven  can  give 

Be  yours,  through  every  day  you  live. 

A  harvest  from  the  seed  you  sow, 

And  "Peace"  on  you  a  Crown  bestow, 

A  blessing  from  all  creeds  and  caste, 

And  God  reward  you  at  the  last. 


Sixty 


THE  END 

There's  always  an  end  to  everything, 
Except  God's  word  and  a  golden  ring; 
Maybe  there's  more  of  which  I  can't  think, 
As  an  endless  chain  with  many  a  link. 

There 's  an  end  of  thougth  and  an  end  of  life, 
An  end  of  worry  and  an  end  of  strife; 
If  there  wasn't  an  end  'twould  be  a  long  time, 
To  live  in  this  world  of  stormy  clime. 

It  isn't  so  long  from  beginning  to  end, 
And  in  every  life  there 's  many  a  bend ; 
Sometimes  it  breaks  or  the  bend  is  wrong, 
Or  a  string  may  snap  in  the  midst  of  a  song. 

Sometimes  we  wish,  forever  we'd  live, 
That  God  more  time  to  us  would  give; 
But  it  matters  not  if  long  or  short. 
Life 's  tangled  threads  we  'd  never  sort. 

Perhaps  at  the  end  there  may  be  gold— 
Or  a  silver  plate  with  letters  bold; 
We'll  find,  just  the  same,  when  our  sands  have  run 
There's  many  a  flaw  in  the  shroud  we've  spun. 

Let's  say  ''Goodnight"  when  our  sun  shall  set, 
Let's  say  "Goodbye"  to  worry  and  fret; 
Let's  say  "Hullo"  if  we  meet  again 
At  the  farther  end  of  a  twisted  lane. 


Sixty  one 


Contents 

THE  FLAG  OF  PEACE __Paoe  7 

Preparedness 8 

Troubles  in  a  Toy  Shop 9 

Get  on  The  Merry-Go-'Round 10 

Birth  of  the  Poppy II 

Morning  and  Evening 12 

Little  Shoe  Strings 13 

Fate |4 

The  White  Soul 15 

The  Folly 16 

Mickey's  Christmas J7 

Holding  Me 18 

Kathleen 19 

Portals  of  the  Past 20 

A  Revery 21 

The  Two  Shadows 21 

The  Moon  Child  ren  and  the  Tide 22 

Sometimes 23 

The  Fallen  Monarch 24 

Forgetting 25 

The  Two  Voices 26 

Pa  and  Me 27 

Yesterday 27 

Little  Whispers 28 

My  Wish 29 

The  End  of  His  Trail 30 

TheLily  of  Easter 31 

TheTwo 32 

The  Song  of  The  Stream 33 

Tomorrow 34 

The  Old  Ox  Shoe 35 

Two  in  a  Boat 35 

Labor  and  Wealth 37 

Marguerite 33 

A  Maiden's  Way 39 

Knuckle  Down : 40 

Some  Day 4  | 

The  City  Beautiful 42 

Hullo  Jim! 43 

My  Dream  Town 44 

Sunset  on  Rubidoux- .  45 

Little  Blue  Bells 46 

Away  From  the  City 47 

Blowing  the  Bubbles 43 

A  Mother's  Love 49 

The  Dance  of  the  Leaves 50 

Mount  Saint  Helena 5| 

Good-Bye 52 

Please 52 

My  Doctor  Friend 53 

Why?__  54 

Snip  and  Snarl . 55 

Retribution 56 

Burning  Brambles 57 

The  Week 58 

The  Birth  of  the  Day 5^ 

A  Happy  New  Year- .  60 

The  End 61 


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